


No Bed of Roses

by TheBasilRathbone



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale is a Plant Coddler, Bickering, Could be read either way, Established, M/M, Not Established, Plant Parents, Short, houseplants, ineffable husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-10 15:08:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19907731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBasilRathbone/pseuds/TheBasilRathbone
Summary: Crowley takes a trip away from London to do some demonic work, and he leaves Aziraphale in charge of looking after his plants while he's gone. Say what you will about the angel, but instilling fear in the hearts (roots?) of household greenery is not his strongest skillset.





	No Bed of Roses

He had spent the better part of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries breeding terror into the very roots of his houseplants. He took pleasure in the fearful rustling of leaves whenever he walked in the door. Liked the souring of the air as they started rapidly converting carbon dioxide to oxygen. The very click of the heels of his boots against the polished floors of his flat could be enough to cause the whole of their leaves to stand to attention like a salute.

And now, like in nearly everything, Aziraphale stepped in to rain on his parade.

They’d slowly begun to seep more and more into one another’s lives, after the almost-apocalypse. Aziraphale’s book habit had started to take over corners of Crowley’s flat, and the corner cupboard that had once held only whisky was now the designated tea cupboard. Similarly, a shelf in Aziraphale’s shop was cleared for rock records and vintage vinyls, and once-untouched sofa had become Crowley’s designated napping destination.

It had only taken six thousand years, but the friendly but separate lives they had once led had now oozed together. Like an infestation, Crowley had said. _Like oil pastels on a canvas!_ Aziraphale had chirped. Crowley didn’t know what oil pastels were, but they sounded dreadfully cheerful.

Much like Aziraphale was when Crowley returned home after several months in America to find Aziraphale puttering around his flat, happily tending to his plants.

“Look at you!” Aziraphale cheered, inspecting the branches of Crowley’s notoriously stubborn monstera plant. His usual linen suit and cravat remained untouched, but was protected from the soil with a garish apron wrapped around his waist and tied with a neat bow at his spine. Floral gardening gloves encased his fingers. “You’re growing another leaf! That’s the second in as many months. How extraordinary!”

“Stop praising them,” Crowley snarled from behind him, watching with some pride as Aziraphale yelped in surprise and dropped the watering can, sending a spray of water halfway down the hall and over Crowley’s polished shoes. Aziraphale gasped and then sighed, tutting disapprovingly at Crowley before bending to collect the jug, the water disappearing from the floor with a flick of his wrist.

“I didn’t expect you so soon,” he chastised. “And you told me to watch your plants while you were gone! Well, I’m caring for them. You can hardly scold me for doing as you asked.”

“You’re praising them,” Crowley spat, snatching the watering can from the angel’s fingers. “Do you know how long I’ve spent instilling the fear of Someone into them?”

Aziraphale tutted again. Heaven, Crowley hated when he did that. “And all for naught! How can you expect anything to thrive under threats?”

“Christianity seems to be doing alright after centuries of being told eternal damnation laid in wait if they didn’t give half of their money and all of their time to the church.”

With a huff of indignation, the angel pried back the watering can. “That’s besides the point. Look, this one has grown another leaf! And I’ve even had to repot your sansevieria, it was doing so well. I’ve been playing them Bach, you know. None of that Silk Underground bebop.”

“ _Velvet_ Underground.” Sulking, Crowley pried up the leaf of a nearby fern with two fingers. They did seem to be doing fairly…okay…with Aziraphale’s coddling. Except…

“Look!” he cried out, seizing a nearby pedilanthus branch and shaking it in Aziraphale’s face. “Look! A spot! They’ve gotten lazy and soft! They’re rotting! Look what you’ve done!”

The angel pulled his chin to his chest, looking quite put out. “Oh, honestly, Crowley,” he remarked, using the light touch of his fingertips against the rim of the pot to lower it away from his face. “You’re entirely too dramatic. These things happen. A little extra care and it will be good as new.”

Aziraphale pulled a pair of pruning shears from mid-air, leaning in close to take the vine delicately and positioning the blades near the base of the plant. He was so close that Crowley could see the angel’s pink scalp, reddened by the sun when they’d lost track of time at St. James’ Park a few weeks’ back. He whinged about the tragedy of hats no longer being in-fashion for nearly a week afterwards, so much so that Crowley had threatened to give him a burn elsewhere so he wouldn’t even notice his scalp.

“Now, this will only hurt for a moment, then you’ll be good as new,” Aziraphale assured the houseplant, snipping off the ruined leaf with a click of the shears. “There!” Beaming with triumph, Aziraphale wiggled the leaf in front of the demon’s glasses with glee. “A bacterial infection, nothing more. A little snip, and the problem is solved. Really, you demons, always acting like everything is the end-“ Aziraphale’s mouth clicked shut.

Crowley grinned wolfishly. “Like everything’s the end of the world?” he finished.

Aziraphale flushed. “Yes, well. You know very well what I meant.” Evidently eager to change the subject, the angel handed over the watering can, brushing his hands on his apron. “Well, how was America?”

Crowley sighed. “It was Hell. In the best possible way. All of the sin, all of the chaos. You should see the state I have politics in over there.”

Again, he was met with a huff. “Oh, pish posh. That has nothing to do with you and you know it. The humans are more than capable of making a mess on their own.”

“ _PIsh posh,_ ” Crowley mimicked, heightening the pitch of his voice. He thrust the watering can down on the nearest table, rolling his eyes as Aziraphale once again tutted and lifted it, wiping the water away with his apron.

“You’ll leave a ring!” the angel scolded.

“I like rings,” Crowley protested. “Besides, part of the whole magic thing is being able to…you know. Do magic. If I cared about water spots, I could magic them away.”

“With a little care and attentiveness it wouldn’t be necessary,” the angel lectured. “Besides, if it’s so easy, why don’t you just take the spots out of your plants with magic?”

“I shouldn’t have to do anything at all. They should KNOW BETTER!” The leaves trembled and rustled around him as he shouted, bringing back some small sense of pride, though Aziraphale’s disappointed look sucked the joy out of it. Buzzkill.

“Can’t you just…well, perhaps it’s asking to much to ask for kindness. But surely you can care for them without abuse. Please? For my sake? It will eat away at me endlessly if I know you cause them such stress. How can I leave them in your care?”

“Funny, you’re usually the one doing the eating,” Crowley drawled, rapping his fingers against the angel’s slight gut. When Aziraphale’s face fell, Crowley deflated. It was really quite difficult to act like a demon when Aziraphale let himself be hurt by doing the very things demons do. “Urgh! Al _right!_ Alright! But one mealy bug and I’m setting them all on fire! Do you hear me?”

Aziraphale grins, shy but clearly pleased. “Oh, thank you! You catch more flies with honey, as they say!”

“Except I’m trying to keep the bugs away, so vinegar would suit me better, in regards to the plants.”

The snarky reply didn’t seem to do anything to hinder the angel’s cheerful demeanour. He clapped his hands together brightly

Crowley sighed. He'd learned a long time ago to pick his battles with these sorts of things. Like the apocalypse. That was a good battle selection. "Well?" he said, "shall we get lunch?"

Aziraphale's gaze dropped to his stomach, hand lingering over where Crowley had tapped his gut. He frowned. 

"Oh, forget it. You know I was joking," Crowley sighed. "Gabriel's in fantastic shape and is a total prick. I don't think that's a coincidence. Better to get lunch before you start down the same path."

Aziraphale gave him a small, grateful smile before plucking off his floral gardening gloves, placing them primly on the nearby table. "Sushi?"

"Fine. But take off that damned apron. I won't be seen in public with you looking like an old housewife."


End file.
